


Hope is the Thing with Feathers: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary- Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Humor, Love, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott contemplated the photograph, meeting that proud, protective gaze with his own, willing him to see how earnestly Scott was endeavoring to care for Bridget and the children. MATB universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope is the Thing with Feathers: a Bridget Jones Fic

Hope is the Thing with Feathers: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221  
Words: 4827  
Rating: T  
Summary: Scott contemplated the photograph, meeting that proud, protective gaze with his own, willing him to see how earnestly Scott was endeavoring to care for Bridget and the children. MATB universe.

Disclaimer: Not my characters. I've just appropriated them for my own amusement.

 

“Unforgettable  
In every way.  
And forever more  
That’s how you’ll stay.  
That’s why, darling  
It’s so incredible  
That someone so unforgettable  
Thinks that I am  
Unforgettable, too.”- Nat King Cole, “Unforgettable”

“Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul  
And sings the tune without the words  
And never stops at all.”- Emily Dickinson

Scott Wallaker stood stiffly and rubbed the kinks from his back, frowning down at the open box of books at his feet. Several weeks had elapsed since he, Bridget, and the children had moved into their new home, and Bridget, not surprisingly, had tackled the gargantuan task of unpacking with all of the organizational prowess of a platoon of headless horsemen. On the whole, Scott had awarded himself credit for exhibiting far more patience under the chaotic circumstances than his military training would ordinarily have allowed. However, having grown tired of maneuvering around cartons of their belongings and searching through boxes for odd items of clothing, Scott had finally reached the breaking point. When Bridget had announced earlier in the week that she intended to take Billy and Mabel to pay a visit to her mother on Saturday, Scott had elected to remain at home, offering to sort out the jungle that the house resembled.  
With Bridget, Billy, and Mabel gone, and Matt and Fred absorbed in a video game, Scott had the freedom to roll up his sleeves and trudge into the domestic war-zone with obsessive-compulsive gusto. He had served in Afghanistan; surely he could tackle Bridget’s boxing system (if system one could call it). Such had been his assumption until he had opened one of several boxes labeled “books” that had contained, among other random items, a frying pan, a pair of knickers, and a stray condom. To Bridget’s credit, the labeling system was not entirely inaccurate, for the box did in fact contain books, though not packed according to any discernable logic that Scott could determine: not by genre, or author, or even alphabetization. After spending several hours sorting through the stacks, Scott decided to step away and brainstorm a more efficient indexing system (and in any case, he desperately wanted a drink). Making his way down the hall, he glanced into his sons’ rooms and found to his surprise that both had made their beds and attempted to clear the floor of the usual scattering of odd socks and crisp packets. A glance toward the other end of the hall revealed that Billy’s room had undergone a similar tidying; Mabel’s domain was another story. Her wardrobe appeared to have vomited its contents all over the bed. ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ thought Scott, resisting the urge to enter the girl’s room and remedy the disorder.  
As he passed the sitting-room, he poked his head round the door to peer in at the boys. “I see you’ve cleaned your rooms,” he observed.  
“Yeah,” answered Matt, pummeling the Xbox controller with his fist. “Bridget told us to.”  
“I’m… sorry?” asked Scott, certain he’d misheard.  
“Yeah,” chimed in Fred. “Yesterday she said she’d make us pancakes if our rooms were tidy.” Scott smiled. The mystery of the morning’s mayhem in the kitchen had been solved, and with the exception of a bit of flour on the floor (more Mabel’s doing than Bridget’s) breakfast had turned out equally edible and enjoyable.  
A thought suddenly occurring to him, Scott entered the room and perched on the edge of the sofa. “Boys,” he said, “do you like living with Bridget?”  
Intent on zapping a green alien with some type of laser device, Matt offered a shrug. “She’s really cool,” he said, his eyes not leaving the screen.  
“She plays games with us sometimes,” added Fred. “And she actually cooks. Not like Mum.”  
Still insistent that the boys show their mother proper respect, and yet unable to blame Fred for the observation, Scott passed over the comment. “And Billy and Mabel?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, the better to gage his sons’ facial expressions.  
“Billy’s a cool kid,” said Fred. “And Mabel, well, she can be cute sometimes.”  
“She can’t help it if she’s a girl,” added Matt.  
Scott chuckled. “You’ll like girls more someday,” he assured his son.  
“Dad?” Matt suddenly set down his controller and turned to his father. “Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”  
Surprised by the question, Scott rubbed his chin, considering how best to answer. “Why do you ask?” he inquired finally.  
Matt shrugged. “Dunno. Just wondered, I guess. Bridget is really cool, and I mean—“he hesitated—“if you wanted to marry her, it’d be OK, I guess. It’d be kind of nice to have a real mum.”  
Taking a deep breath to ease the tightness in his chest, Scott rose and went to the boy, ruffling his hair. “I’m glad you like Bridget so much,” he said gently.  
“So are you gonna marry her then?” piped up Fred.  
“We’ll see,” said Scott, feeling more than ever in need of a drink.  
Fetching himself a beer from the kitchen, he returned to the bedroom and made to set his drink on the bedside table when he noticed a book lying open on its surface. As he reached to remove it and prevent potential spill damage, he glanced at its pages, curious as to what Bridget was currently reading, only to encounter her own handwriting. Realizing that he had stumbled upon her diary, he nonetheless skimmed the contents of the page that lay open to his view, mostly, he rationalized, because he had caught sight of his own name. 

> 11.00 PM: House quiet. Children and Scott asleep. Love lying in bed beside Scott, listening to the homey nighttime sounds—the low hum of the refrigerator, the creek of a step when the boys sneak down to the kitchen for a midnight snack—the sounds of the house settling around us. Speaking of settling, really must unpack. Entire place resembles a warehouse that has been hit by a devastating hurricane. Scott has offered to sort out the chaos tomorrow while I take Billy and Mabel to visit mum. Love Scott, and feel all the more guilty for not tackling the unpacking like mature, responsible adult.  
>  Truth is, every time I attempt to have a go at it, I feel like I’m opening a Pandora’s box of memories; I’m flooded with recollections of moving into Mark’s home—our home—and the way he handled everything with such micromanaging efficiency that it was as if he snapped his fingers and everything I owned was settled in its rightful place. (Not that it ever staid there, as Mark constantly took pleasure in pointing out to me). 

  
Scott paused in his reading and winced at the pang of guilt he experienced; of course he ought to have known that beginning their life together, setting up a new home, would naturally excavate memories of Mark for Bridget, to say nothing of what she had endured when she and the children had first begun a new life without him. Sighing, he set down the diary and reached back into the box, curious, but not surprised, when his fingers made contact with an object that felt nothing like a book. Sensing glass beneath his hands, Scott carefully drew out a picture frame that, after he brushed away the dust, revealed itself to be the family photograph Bridget had always kept on her dressing-table. Scott held it in his hands for several moments; then gently cleared a space for it on the bedside table before dropping onto the bed to study it more closely. A formal portrait, it had been one of the very last taken of Mark before he had left for Sudan. Bridget sat cradling Mabel in her arms, Billy beside her. Scott generally loved this photo of her; she wore a loose-fitting dress in a light shade of blue that matched the color of her eyes, and she had swept her hair back with a silver comb. Her expression radiated with a joy that was all the more poignant to observe in the knowledge of what she would soon face. Now, however, Scott’s gaze was riveted on Mark, standing behind his family, one hand resting on Bridget’s shoulder, the other on his son’s. Even one unacquainted with him could discern his stern, exacting nature from his countenance, but the smile that softened the corners of his mouth bespoke a tenderness of heart and a strong attachment to those he held dear. His dark eyes held a proud, protective expression that Scott sometimes observed in Billy’s eyes when he gazed at his mother, but as Scott studied the picture, he felt suddenly as if that gaze were directed at him, issuing him a bold-faced challenge: ‘Can you truly take my place?’ Often Scott had contemplated that stare, meeting it with his own, willing Mark to see how earnestly he was endeavoring to care for Bridget and the children. Yet in truth, he envied Mark, or rather, envied the love he and Bridget had shared. Scott knew, of course, that no marriage was perfect, and in her preservation of Mark’s memory, Bridget had probably succumbed to a certain degree of selective amnesia, but even in its difficult moments, their relationship had thrived. Scott could not say the same of his own marriage, and while he and Bridget had decided jointly not to marry, Scott sometimes felt—selfishly, perhaps—cheated out of experiencing that depth of commitment.  
Massaging his temples to relieve the dull ache beginning to throb in his head, Scot admitted to himself that his decision not to propose marriage to Bridget had largely to do with the intimidating shadow that Mark’s ghost cast over him. He knew he couldn’t—and shouldn’t—attempt to take Mark’s place, but he felt sometimes as though he were competing with an undefeatable force. He was being irrational, he told himself, as he closed his eyes.  
\----------  
He stood alone in the center of what looked to be the field used for the school’s sports day, hands on hips, feet planted squarely. Not entirely certain why he was here, he knew only that he had come prepared to settle a score, but with whom, he couldn’t quite recall. As he tapped his foot impatiently, he caught sight of his opponent strolling toward him, apparently unruffled by the prospect of the impending confrontation.  
Scott thought he recognized the man as he drew nearer, and when they finally stood face to face, Scott could only observe, “Mark Darcy.”  
Mark inclined his head in acknowledgement. “What a long overdue pleasure, Scott,” he said pleasantly.  
“What the bloody Hell are you doing here?” Scott blurted.  
“I was hoping you’d be able to enlighten me on that point,” replied Mark, arching a brow. “This is your dream, not mine, but,” he added, “judging by the surroundings, you seem intent on channeling your resentment toward me into a demonstration of masculine prowess.” Scott took in the measure of the man standing opposite him, thinking that his own athleticism placed him in a somewhat advantageous position.  
“It’s not enough,” he said as they began to circle one another, “that you’re standing on a pedestal in saint-like status in Bridget’s mind. Do you have to cast a shadow over our relationship as well?”  
“I’m wondering,” Mark said casually, “has Bridget given you that impression?”  
Scott paused, lowering his hands, which he had raised combatively without having realized the gesture while Mark nonchalantly rested a hand on his hip, regarding Scott with mild curiosity. “Not in so many words, precisely,” replied Scott. “I’ve just, shall we say, reached that conclusion through my own… observations.”  
Mark nodded. “You read Bridget’s diary, didn’t you?” he surmised.  
“I… stumbled across it, inadvertently, you understand.”  
“Of course,” said Mark. “I did that once. Despite it being an inadvertent invasion of privacy, it was really quite illuminating. I’ve often wondered, had I not discovered it, whether our relationship would have commenced as it did. It lent a certain—I don’t know—transparency to the way we saw one another. Not that we didn’t have our share of misunderstandings, but we couldn’t hide behind false pretenses.”  
“I can’t really fault her for feeling the way she does; given how much she loved you, how much she still loves you, I can appreciate that starting over would come with a set of complications.” Scott raked a hand through his hair, considering how to proceed. Finally he continued, “I just wonder, truthfully, if I can ever make her as happy as she deserves to be.”  
“For what it’s worth,” said Mark, “I think you’re meeting the challenge admirably.”  
“I don’t want to usurp your place in Bridget’s heart, or in the children’s,” said Scott.  
“I know that,” murmured Mark. “But don’t hold back either, just because you’re afraid of somehow supplanting me in their estimation. Bridget deserves everything you can give her, and the children—Mabel especially—deserve to have a father who can love them in a more tangible way than I can.”  
“I want to be a supportive partner, and a supportive father, but sometimes I feel as if there’s something missing from the equation.”  
Mark fixed Scott with that same intent, searching gaze that challenged him from within the frame of the photograph. “You want to marry her,” he said at last.  
Scott sighed. “I didn’t think I did. Not at first, or rather, I should say, I didn’t think it mattered one way or the other. To say I didn’t want to makes it sound as if I didn’t want to commit to her, and I wouldn’t want you to think—“  
Mark held up a hand to silence him. “I know,” he said gently.  
“The thing is,” continued Scott, “I didn’t want Bridget to feel pressured, or as if I were trying to usurp your position, and then of course, I had my own boys to consider, not to mention, well—“  
“Your previous marriage,” Mark finished.  
Scott blinked. “You—how could you—“  
“Know about that? Really, Scott,” replied mark, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile, “do you honestly think I’d just stand back and let any man waltz into my family’s life without conducting a thorough background check? Besides, there’s very little I miss from my vantage point.”  
“I’m not sure whether I find that reassuring or unsettling,” said Scott.  
“Look, I’m going to share something with you, from one ex-husband to another. I imagine you know something of my first marriage.”  
“I know it… didn’t exactly work out,” Scott said delicately.  
“It was an unmitigated disaster,” corrected Mark.  
In spite of himself, Scott smiled. “Your words, not mine. In any case, I’d venture to say that, given the fact that the reason for that disaster is currently standing as your children’s’ godfather, you’ve managed to mend fences fairly well.”  
Mark Shrugged. “Bridget’s doing more than mine, not that I’m ungrateful for the chance to be reconciled with Daniel, especially since—well, that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Scott, that I understand the position you’re coming from. After I extricated myself from the shipwreck of my first marriage, I spent quite a while wondering if I wanted to make, or even had what it took to make that level of commitment to anyone else, especially given how emotionally bankrupt I felt after the whole experience.” He paused, and his gaze shifted, as though he had fixed it on something in the distance that Scott couldn’t see.  
Pulling him back to the moment, Scott said, “Then Bridget happened.”  
Mark smiled wistfully. “Yes,” he whispered. “Bridget happened. I didn’t think it possible to love someone that much. More importantly though, I didn’t think it possible that someone could love me that much, but every time I looked into her eyes, I saw such unreserved, absolute trust, and it frightened me. She just placed her heart in my hand and trusted that I wouldn’t break it, or let it slip through my fingers. The fact that I very nearly did, and still wound up married to her, never failed to catch me by surprise, even years after the fact.”  
“I think that’s one of the things I admire most about Bridget,” said Scott. “After everything she’s been through, after all of the hurt she’s experienced, she can still love so easily.”  
“Yes,” agreed Mark. “But here’s the catch; in doing so, she demands a lot of you. You know Bridget. She’s an all or nothing sort of person. If you’re not going to give her 100 percent, you might as well walk away now and have done with it. When she gives everything, she expects everything, and rightly so.”  
“Sometimes I don’t know whether or not I can give her everything she expects,” murmured Scott.  
Mark reached out to lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I didn’t think I could either, at first,” he said. “Bridget has fairly clear ideas in her mind about the trajectory of her relationships. She might not always know when or how you’re both going to get there, but she knows where she wants you to wind up. When she first asked me if I wanted to marry her, she forced me to really think about the implications of what I was getting myself—and her—into. What I interpreted at the time as an accusation about my lack of commitment was actually a challenge to step back and evaluate the relationship and take control over its direction. It took me longer than it should have to come to that realization.”  
“I’ve started to see that, since we’ve begun living together as a family,” said Scott. “I’ve started wondering if the reason we decided not to get married was that it circumvented the question of whether or not we actually wanted to.”  
“But now?” Mark asked.  
“Now, well, I just…“ Scott hesitated.  
“You want to feel like a family,” Mark offered.  
“That makes it sound as if I need to fall back on some conventional understanding of the nuclear family, as if what we have now doesn’t make us a family.”  
“No, I understand,” said Mark. “You and Bridget are starting over, in a way that is markedly different than my experience starting over with her, mostly because you’re trying to forge a new family with the pieces of your own. You think marriage would bring a sense of continuity to what you’re building together.”  
“You know,” said Scott, shoving his hands into his pockets, “somehow beating you to a bloody pulp doesn’t seem as appealing as it did a few minutes ago.”  
Mark smiled. “I thought you’d come round to that realization eventually. I’m on your side, Scott. I know how much you love Bridget, and it gives me a sense of peace to know she has someone to spend the rest of her life with. She doesn’t deserve to be alone.”  
“This is bloody awkward, Mark, but, well, I’d just like to know you—that is—would you give me your blessing?”  
Mark’s gaze turned wistful again as he stared into the distance. “Yes,” he said finally. “But only on one condition.”  
At this, Scott chuckled. “I ought to have known you’d set terms on the agreement.”  
“Once a barrister, always a barrister,” said Mark. He reached out then and grasped Scott’s hand. “I have to ask. You know I have to ask. Just…“ He paused, a glimmer of tears in his eyes as he looked directly at Scott. “Promise me you’ll take care of them. Please.”  
Scott blinked against the moisture gathering in his own eyes as he pressed Mark’s hand reassuringly. “You know I will.” As they released one another’s hands, Mark turned as if to leave. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell Bridget?”  
With another smile, Mark shook his head. “You could tell her I love her,” he said softly, “but I think she knows that.”  
“She won’t forget you,” Scott assured him. “None of them will. I promise.”  
Mark nodded. “I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll never be far away.” Still blinking back tears, Scott brushed a hand across his eyes, but when he looked round again, Mark had gone. Catching a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, he turned and saw an owl perched in a nearby tree, its dark eyes fixed intently on him as though it were watching him. There was something familiar about those eyes, Scott thought, but no—it couldn’t be. Could it?  
“Mark?” The owl continued to scrutinize Scot with those unblinking, eerily familiar eyes. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod and a rustle of wings, it took flight, casting one final look in Scott’s direction as it disappeared.

\----------  
“Daddy?” Scott blinked and squinted into the gathering darkness, unaware that he’d fallen asleep. Mabel had climbed onto the bed beside him and put her two little arms about his neck.  
Smiling sleepily, he brushed the curls back from her forehead and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hello, Princess,” he murmured. “Did you have a nice visit with Grannie Pam?”  
Mabel nodded, curls bobbing, blue eyes wide with delight. “Uh-huh,” she replied. Then suddenly she frowned, and the incongruity of the severe expression on her round, rosy face made Scott chuckle. “Mummy said you was supposed to do de unpacking,” she scolded.  
“I know,” said Scott, stroking Mabel’s cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Mummy’s right.”  
“And how’s that going?” asked Bridget from the doorway, hands on her hips. The scowl on her face was identical to Mabel’s, and all the more endearing for being equally unconvincing.  
“Mabel,” said Bridget, “go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I want to talk to Daddy for a few minutes. We’ll be right in.”  
“Is it about-“ Mabel began, but surprisingly fell silent when Bridget held up a finger to quiet her.  
“Sh,” she admonished. “We’ll be along in a few minutes.” Mabel leaned in to peck Scott’s cheek, and as she scurried away, he felt his chest tighten.  
Bridget crossed the room and perched on the edge of the bed beside Scott. “I’m glad I left the unpacking in such capable hands,” she observed.  
Yawning, Scott scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry, Bridget. I meant to make more of a dent in it, but I… came across something in the process.” Sighing, he reached for the diary that still lay open beside him and handed it to Bridget.  
Her eyes widened in surprise as she took it in her hand. “How did you find this?” she asked.  
“It was just lying open on the bedside table,” replied Scott.  
“I’ve heard that before,” said Bridget, rolling her eyes.  
“I’m serious, Bridget. I thought it was just whatever book you happened to be reading, and I picked it up to move it out of harm’s way, and, well…” He shrugged, uncertain what else he might say in his defense.  
Frowning, Bridget scanned the page; then closed the book and reached for Scott, pulling him into her arms. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, laying her lips on his forehead. “I never meant you to see that.”  
“I figured as much,” said Scott. “Pro tip. If you don’t want someone to read your diary, keep it away from prying eyes.”  
Bridget laughed. “You’d think I’d have learned that by now.”  
“I’m the one who owes you an apology,” murmured Scott, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “It should have occurred to me how all of this might make you feel—moving, starting over.”  
“Still,” said Bridget, “it’s not fair to you. It’s all rather bittersweet, but I don’t want to start our life together on a depressing note.”  
“Well, I have a suggestion,” said Scott, leaning back against the pillows and pulling Bridget to his chest.  
“Oh?” Bridget arched a brow.  
“It’s quite simple, really,” said Scott in a tone of effected nonchalance, swallowing as the words tickled the back of his throat. “You could marry me.”  
Bridget blinked. “Scott, you—can’t be serious,” she stammered.  
“A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” he replied. “But I take your meaning.”  
“No, no, it’s not that!” Bridget exclaimed. “Shit, that sounded terrible. I just meant—fuck.” Chewing on her lower lip, she averted her eyes, spotting the family photograph on the bedside table as she did.  
“I found it in one of the boxes I was going through earlier,” Scott explained. “I thought you might like it there.”  
Bridget reached out to brush her fingertips across the picture, tracing the curve of Mark’s smile before turning back to face Scott. “I’m sorry for getting so emotional,” she murmured. “It’s just, well, the timing of your question is a bit eerie. On the drive back from Mum’s, Mabel asked me whether or not you and I are ever going to get married and—“ she swallowed—“if we do, does that mean you’ll be even more her Daddy?”  
“And… what did you say?” asked Scott, endeavoring to maintain his would-be casual tone.  
“I asked her and Billy how they’d feel about it.”  
“And?” Scott prompted.  
“Mabel doesn’t mind. Someday, when she’s older, she’ll be able to grasp that Mark loved her as much as he was able, and she’ll be able to appreciate his memory—or the memory of him that I’ve tried to give her, but for right now, Mark is more like a storybook character to her.”  
“And Billy?” asked Scott.  
“He just sort of shrugged and said it would be nice to feel like a real family again.”  
“Oh, Bridget.” As her eyes filled with tears, Scott pulled her closer and pressed her head to his chest. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he whispered, combing his fingers through her hair. “I’m sorry.”  
“I’m n-n-not crying because of th-that,” she insisted. “It’s just—I don’t—shit! I don’t know!”  
“Sh,” Scott soothed, resting his chin on the top of her head and rocking her gently in his arms. “It’s all right, Bridget. It’s going to be all right. We don’t have to talk about it. Hush now.”  
“No,” protested Bridget, wiping her eyes on the corner of his sleeve. “We do. That’s just the point. When we first decided not to get married, it was a relief in a way, because I didn’t have to think about anything but trying to pull together all of the pieces of my life and create something new out of them, and trying to figure out where you fit in all of that. Then, as I got used to things, I started to realize that I wasn’t being fair to you, because I was still holding back a part of myself.”  
For a moment, Scott considered telling Bridget about his dream, but ultimately decided against it, thinking it might cause more confusion. Instead he said, “I thought at first we might wait a few months, see how the living arrangement progresses, settle into a routine. The truth is, though, that I agree with Billy. I’d like us to feel more like a family.”  
Bridget lifted her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “What about Matt and Fred? I mean, their situation isn’t quite the same. My children lost their father. Yours, well—“  
“Sarah wasn’t ever really there for the boys, not the way Mark was—not the way he would have been for Billy and Mabel.”  
Tears welled in Bridget’s eyes again. “I know,” she whispered. “But she’s… still alive. It’s different.”  
Scott smiled. “Quite frankly, they’ll be thrilled to have a mum that’s not made of plastic.” Bridget managed a shaky laugh. “In all honesty,” Scott continued, “Matt and Fred taxed me with a similar question while you were gone this afternoon. Maybe the children got together and worked the whole thing out on their own. Who knows? The boys are crazy about you, Bridget.”  
“I love them too,” she said, taking Scott’s hand and giving it a squeeze.  
“It’s a pretty mutually beneficial arrangement. Your children want a dad; mine want a mum. Plus,” he added, caressing her cheek, “I’m just slightly in love with you myself.”  
Bridget wrapped her arms around him. “I love you too,” she whispered.  
“So does this mean you’ll marry me?”  
Bridget’s gaze wandered back to the photograph; then glanced through the window over Scott’s shoulder. When her eyes widened, he turned and glanced behind him. In a tree just beyond the window perched a very familiar-looking owl. Bridget slipped her hand into Scott’s as they stared out the window together for several moments. Finally, Scott withdrew his gaze and looked back at Bridget. When their eyes met, a look of silent understanding passed between them.  
Leaning forward, Bridget cradled Scott’s face in her hands and touched her forehead to his. “Yes,” she whispered, and kissed him.

The End 


End file.
